


K155 Me

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Internet, M/M, Severus Snape Fest 2016, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What use is a new tablet to access an on-line marking program when he doesn’t have Internet service in his flat? Severus asks new neighbour Harry Potter to share his Internet password, and that’s that – but Harry has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	K155 Me

**Author's Note:**

> I love non-magical AUs but have never written one myself. Thanks to the prompter for the chance to cross this one off my list. Enjoy!

He’s too old for this, and is seriously considering tendering his resignation in the spring. The students are too attached to technology, and too accustomed to having results in their hands immediately. Would the world come crashing down if they were forced to wait a week or two for their final marks? He’s grudgingly complied with the increasingly ridiculous demands – posting the syllabus, reading lists, marking criteria and the results of major exams and term papers. Two years ago, the university had mandated that all classroom reading materials be made available online, as well. Fortunately, they’d provided support for the more traditional professors.

Professors like Severus Snape.

But now, on top of all the previous requirements, he is required to use a new marking program _online_ and it made no sense. No sense at all. Every quiz, every exam, every assignment must be entered and given an appropriate weight, and the program would use its non-existent brain to do all the calculations and assign the final mark.

So here he sits, near the end-of-term break, trying to set up the tablet computer the university has provided to access the new system. He’d successfully navigated the program during the obligatory training session, albeit with snarls, scowls and a good deal of off-colour language, but faced with a brand spanking new device, he is, quite frankly, lost.

He’d managed to plug in the wall charger and charge the device without even opening the quick-start guide. Then, when the battery health read-out read one hundred percent, he’d fumbled with the buttons on the side of the device, finally succeeding in turning it on, making it come to life with a flourish of music and dancing coloured lights.

Now, buoyed by this hard-won success, Severus touches the Google Chrome icon already loaded on what he would call his “desktop” if this were his old and comfortable work station in his office at school. However, there is nothing old nor comfortable about this new tablet. It is sleek and black and so fragile-looking Severus knows it will snap in half the first time he looks at it crossly.

Things are not working as they should. The university home page does not open inside the browser window. He fiddles with settings for fifteen minutes before he realises, in one of those _I can’t believe I could be so stupid_ moments, that he is not connected to the Internet.

Laboriously, he hunts and clicks and closes and opens, seemingly at random, until he has before him a list of available networks. Three of them show a connection strength so weak he ignores them. The other two seem to be better options, and he considers one named “Squatter” and another with the very creative name of MD782931Locked.

He’s able to connect to the second, but is asked to enter a network security key. He’s not given a handy entry form showing him the number of characters, or any hint of any kind. He tries a few of his own making, but soon gives it up in favour of the one named Squatter.

It isn’t too difficult to determine what he has here. There are four flats in the building, and one of them, the one directly across from his, is currently vacant. The other three networks must be coming from the buildings nearby. He doesn’t know the tenants in those buildings, who move in and out as frequently at the university terms change. Below him, on the ground floor of this more established four-family, resides a pair of graduate students, doctoral candidates whom he’s met in passing. They’re quiet and serious and make the best of neighbours. Their network is surely the one ending with “Locked.” Severus knows them to be very security-minded given their general behavior – locking their door even when running to take out the rubbish – so he sighs and considers Squatter.

Squatter is – must be – Potter, the young man in the other ground-floor flat. He’s sub-letting from old Mrs. Figg, minding her cats while she recovers from a broken hip at her daughter’s near Bath. Potter’s been here nearly a month now. Severus isn’t quite sure what the man does for a living, as he comes and goes in no discernable pattern. Severus has seen him with a sketchpad more than once, out in the garden tossing crumbs to the birds, then intently sketching them as they flit about. The sparrows and pigeons light on the bench beside him, brazen fools that they are.

Still, Potter, Bohemian as he may be, seems more approachable than the security-conscious students. Severus has no desire to set up Internet of his own, though he wouldn’t be averse to paying Potter a bit to access his from time to time. And he’s not about to take himself to a café when he’s got a perfectly good flat of his own, with a kitchen and a loo accessible to no one but himself. He checks the time—not his mobile, as all his students do, but on the wall clock—and decides to try Potter’s door and ask for his wireless password.

He hears music behind the door when he raises his hand to knock. He pauses to listen – the radio, he thinks, not the television. Something modern and instrumental, something that fades into the background yet still manages to frame the young man when he opens the door as effectively as the light illuminating him from behind.

“Professor Snape.” The man takes a single step back. “Can I help you?”

Snape frowns. “Have we met?” he asks. Then, realising that they have, indeed, met in passing in the building, adds, “Formally, I mean. You know I’m a professor.”

Potter smiles. “I was in your Chem I lecture a few years ago. Harry Potter.”

He extends his hand and Severus takes it, trying to place the man’s face. But the lecture hall is large, and the graduate students handle most of the marking, study sessions and labs. It isn’t unreasonable at all that he not remember a former student, and he decides that Potter must have either changed his appearance quite a bit, or frequented the rear of the lecture hall, as his is a face he’d surely remember. It features the greenest eyes he’s ever seen and a mop of unruly dark hair nearly brushing the rims of old-fashioned round spectacles. 

Severus doesn’t try to pretend he remembers Potter. “I take it you’re no longer at the university?” he asks.

“Graduated two years ago,” Potter answers. He takes another step backward and gestures toward the small sitting room. “Would you like to come in, Professor? The kettle is on if you’d like tea.”

“Thank you – and you may call me Severus.”

Harry smiles. “And Harry will do for me.”

Severus walks rather stiffly into the room, studying the simple furnishings and décor as Potter disappears into the kitchenette to prepare the tea. He stops at the easel facing the window and studies the canvas. Something abstract, in acrylics. Not his taste, really, though the colour palette is pleasing and Potter seems to have some talent. 

He sits on one end of the sofa and glances at the open sketchbook atop a closed laptop computer. Birds, the common variety that frequent the birdfeeder hanging on a branch outside the window, done in coloured pencil. 

Potter sets a tray on the table a few minutes later and moves the sketchbook and laptop to a desk across the room. He pours for Severus and adds a touch of milk at Severus’ nod.

“I’ve actually come to ask a favour,” Severus says, accepting the mug with a polite thank you. His tablet is in his lap and he gestures at it. “The university now requires us to use an on-line marking system, and I was hoping to set it up this weekend. I’m in need of an Internet connection and thought yours might be sufficiently strong to use in my flat. I can pay you a portion of the monthly fee, of course.”

Harry is looking at him rather oddly. “Can’t you just tether to your mobile?” he asks. “I mean – of course you can share mine – but wouldn’t it be easier just to connect up with your smart phone?”

Severus sighs. He extracts his mobile from his pocket and holds it up for Harry’s inspection. It’s an older-model flip phone, serviceable but decidedly not smart.

“Oh.” Harry’s mouth twitches and Severus knows he’s trying not to grin. “I see. Well – alright then. The password is Hedw1g97. That’s with a capital H and the number one for the I.”

Severus thinks it would be rude to power on his tablet, so he commits the password to memory. He sips his tea and looks over the rim of the mug at Potter – all green eyes and messy hair with that two-days’ stubble on his cheeks and chin. If he was interested in small talk, he would ask Potter how he knows Arabella Figg, or what Hedwig is – or was – or what he studied in school besides Chemistry 1. Or he could ask about the painting, or the sketches, which doesn’t seem quite so much like small talk, as he really is interested in those. He’s not an artist himself, though some would call his experiments and research art, but he fancies himself a connoisseur and thinks Harry is – or could be – very good.

Severus settles back on the sofa. “I’ve seen you outside sketching. The drawing over there – it’s very good. Did you study art in school?”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s a pastime. My degree is in computer programming.” He sips his tea, then warms his hand around the mug. “I enjoyed your class. I took it as an elective.” He stresses the word elective more than he should, as if conveying something to Severus that he should understand, but doesn’t.

“You took Chemistry as an elective?” Severus raises an eyebrow. He’s earned his reputation as a demanding, no-nonsense professor and, while his classes are always at or near capacity, he cannot fathom that there are many students who take them as elective credits. “For pleasure?”

Harry’s mouth quirks. Severus finds he cannot look away from that intriguing face with those green, green eyes. “Right – something like that.”

Severus frowns. He dislikes mind games and teasing. “What do you mean?” he asks, giving Harry his best professorial stare, the one that usually reduces a called-upon student to something resembling wood pulp.

Harry, however, seems immune to the effects of his scrutiny. He grins, rather sheepishly, and holds up his hands as if in surrender. “Alright, I’ll admit it. I’m just another gay man in the Severus Snape fan club. But I actually took the class for credit. Labs about killed me, but I pushed through.”

_The Severus Snape what…?_

He realises that Harry is staring at him, mouth slightly open.

“You _do_ know about it? I mean – you’ve been teaching there for what – five years?”

“Eight,” Severus corrects, tersely. “Eight years.” He licks his suddenly dry lips. “Do enlighten me, Mr. Potter.”

“Harry.”

_“Harry.”_

Harry seems more amused than afraid. He blows across the surface of his tea, eyes on Severus, then takes a drink and sets the cup down on the table between them. “I am relatively certain that every gay man on campus has either taken your class for credit or attended a lecture or two just to hear your voice. You’re a legend, Severus.” He grins, shaking his head in disbelief. “I just assumed you knew. Everyone does. You never said a thing about the extra faces that showed up in class.”

He does know that attendance in his classes is higher than normal, but assumes he’d put the fear of God in his students and they understand that good marks are dependent on attending class and taking good notes.

“Consider me informed now.” 

Harry shifts. “Jesus – I wish I could draw your voice,” he mutters.

“My voice.” Severus shifts uncomfortably himself now, rapidly assembling all the odd disconnects of the past few years. He is easily twenty years older than Harry, older still than the current batch of students, and of an entirely different generation. Openly discussing personal matters, especially matters of sexuality, has always been taboo. And while Severus is well aware that times have changed, _he_ isn’t required to change along with them.

“Your voice is liquid sex,” Harry says. “And don’t tell me you don’t know it. You _have_ to know it. You use it so – so _effectively_.”

“I use it to engender fear and respect,” Severus states. “To impart knowledge. I have cultivated a certain tone – but it is not meant to _seduce_ in the classroom and it is certainly not meant to be _liquid sex._ ”

“Hey – Severus. I’m sorry. Let’s – here. Let me see your tablet. I’ll get you logged on to my network.”

He reaches out and takes the tablet from Severus’ lap then gets up and settles again on the sofa beside him. “I’ll save it as a home network – you won’t have any restrictions, then.”

And while Harry doesn’t make a move to touch Severus, Severus is acutely aware of the man beside him – comfortable in his own skin, friendly yet not overbearingly so. He’s interested in Severus – of this, Severus has no doubt – yet he makes no overt moves, and his brand of flirting is low key and understated.

And when Severus picks up his tablet thirty minutes later and takes his leave, Harry walks to the door with him and shakes his hand warmly.

“I enjoyed getting to know you, Severus. If you need anything, just ask. I’m sure we’ll be bumping into each other again.”

It isn’t the most promising of send-offs, and Severus finds himself oddly disappointed as he makes his way back upstairs.

ooOOOoo

A week later, Severus has seen Harry Potter only one more time, in the small park down the street from their building. He’d had a sketch pad in his lap, but was talking on his mobile. He’d caught Severus’ eye as Severus hurried by, and had given him a bright smile and a wave, but had continued his conversation, and Severus had gone on his way.

But now, Severus once again stands in front of Mrs. Figg’s door. Just as he had the previous time, he can hear music playing in the background. He raps on the door sharply and takes a step backward, affecting as neutral a look as he can muster.

When no one answers the door, Snape raps again for good measure. This time, he hears movement from within and a minute later Potter opens the door and stands inside, blinking sleepily. He’s wearing sleep pants and a worn t-shirt, and he’s not wearing his glasses. 

“Oh – hullo Severus.” Harry blinks and tries on a smile. “Come in?”

It’s more a question than an invitation, but Harry is already shuffling back into the flat, so Severus follows him in.

“I’ll put the kettle on.” 

A few minutes later, Harry presses a mug of tea into his hand – already coloured with a touch of milk. They settle together on the sofa and Harry folds up his legs and sits cross-legged.

“I had the overnight shift last night,” he explains. “The alarm rang an hour ago but I decided I didn’t really need to get up and be productive today.”

“I didn’t ask last week,” Severus begins, as politely as possible. “You said you studied computer science – do you have a job in the industry?”

Harry nods, then stretches his neck to one side. Severus tries not to stare at the expanse of smooth skin, or the clavicle exposed by the loose t-shirt.

“I work at the hospital – at the university. Entry-level programming, and not quite full-time, but it’s a start. I work a lot of odd shifts when we’ve got projects or problems.”

“Congratulations – not everyone manages to find employment in their chosen field of study.” 

Harry shrugs. “I like it. Don’t want to do it forever, of course. I’d rather be independently wealthy and spend more time painting and sketching.” He sips his tea, then turns his head and looks at Severus quizzically. “What do you do for fun, Severus?”

Severus hesitates. “I have my research….”

Harry shakes his head, smiling. “Fun, Severus.”

Severus rolls his eyes.

“Fine – I write bodice-rippers under the pseudonym Sebastian Tobias,” he dead-pans.

Harry grins. “Then you must know my Aunt Petunia –she’s your biggest fan.”

Severus’ eyes widen in surprise. “Petunia Dursley. Of course. I’ve quite a collection of fan-mail from her.”

Harry drops his mug. Fortunately, it spills onto the area rug at their feet and not on Harry or Severus. He leaves the cup where it landed and stares at Severus, mouth open. “You – you’re….” He shakes his head and Severus feels a pleased grin hijack his face. He’s just revealed his biggest secret, the one thing about himself he’s shared with no one in his daily circle, including his own mother, and he’s revealed it, by chance or mischance, to the nephew of the woman who writes him weekly and who organises his fan club.

“No one will believe you if you tell them,” Severus says, continuing to drink his tea calmly. “Now, about that Internet password….”

“Internet password – oh. You mean my network security key. Right – changed it a couple nights ago – someone tried to hack in.” 

“How unfortunate,” Severus says. “So – the new password?”

“Is it really you? Sebastian Tobias?”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “The password?”

“So – if I give you the password….” 

“Yes, I’ll make you a character in my next novel. Now – the password?”

“That’s not….” Harry trails off. His face lights up into a delighted smile. “Really? Can you imagine my aunt’s face? Make sure you describe me with messy hair and green eyes and the round glasses. You will – right? She _hates_ my hair – always has.”

Severus chuckles and Harry leans against him, laughing. 

“Alright – the password is R1dDle – that’s a capital R, number one, small d, capital d and a small l and e.”

“Thank you – and for the record – and the novel – is it Harry or Henry, and do you have a middle name to go with it?”

“Harry and yes, James.” Harry shakes his head. “But honestly – you? Sebastian Tobias? You write bodice rippers for people like my Aunt Petunia? You’re a chemistry professor – a _gay_ chemistry professor!”

Severus smiles and stays long enough to finish his tea. They walk together up to his flat and he shows Harry his shelf of romance novels, and the signature page of a contract with both his legal name and his pseudonym. It is odd – yet somehow liberating – to have shared this secret with another person and, when Harry leaves an hour later, they’ve spent an entertaining half hour reading excerpts from his work in progress. Severus stands in the doorway watching Harry as he leaves, and he closes the door when Harry turns out of sight and leans against it, wondering what is happening to his cozy, quiet and unassuming life.

ooOOOoo

During the course of the following week, Severus logs into the new grade management software to record the results of his first quiz. Then, even though he has a book in the works and a deadline approaching, he stares at his tablet for a long while, then opens a new browser window and searches for his own name.

_Professor Severus Snape._

And, while Harry has clued him in, he is still surprised and a bit shocked at what he finds. A Facebook group, numerous discussion threads, a popular tag on Tumblr. He doesn’t even know what Tumblr is and, frankly, he regrets ever having looked at it after ten minutes spent perusing his “tag.” He decides, then and there, to change his tactics a bit in class. His mind may be filled with Chemistry and his scholarly research during the day, and with romantic purple prose on the weekends, but it is always sharp, and always a bit devious.

He doesn’t see Harry at all for more than a week, though he finds a note under his door one morning with a single word on it.

F1reB0lt

He stares at the slip of paper, then affixes it to his refrigerator under a ceramic owl-shaped magnet.

Harry comes to him this time.

It’s late Friday evening, nearly midnight, and he’s sitting at his trusty typewriter nursing a glass of scotch, attempting to pound out an original deflowering of the virgin bride by the rogue prince-turned-pirate, when someone raps on his door. This occurrence – having a visitor in his self-made solitary existence – is such a rarity that he actually jerks his head toward the door and glares at it suspiciously.

“Severus – it’s just me. Harry.”

Severus pulls open the door to find Harry Potter, apparently just returned from work. He’s wearing horrible wrinkled khaki trousers and a button-down shirt. Severus hates khaki and he imagines Potter does too, and must have been eager to see him or he’d have changed out of his work uniform before seeking him out.

“You’re devious,” Harry says, pushing his way past Severus. He eyes the glass of scotch on the desk as he plops down onto a corner of the leather sofa. “Is that scotch?”

Severus wordlessly pours, then settles beside Harry and hands him a glass. 

“And just exactly how am I devious?” he asks. “Not that I don’t agree – I can be devious when I want to be.”

Harry laughs. “You know what I mean. Your Intro to Chem lecture – since when do you call on students in the lecture hall?”

He’s smiling, and Severus smiles in return.

“You have connections at the university still? I thought you were a _former_ student?”

“My best friend’s sister’s there now, and her roommate is in that class. She says you started singling out specific people – asking them why they enrolled in the class, what their major is, how they expect to use chemistry in their lives after uni.”

“Totally relevant questions,” Severus says. 

“But you’re only calling on the gay men in the back of the classroom!” Harry exclaims. 

“I only had to call on two before there was a general exodus,” Severus states. “There were at least two dozen empty seats in the back four rows when the lecture ended – a few more left every time I turned my back. And mind you – I am fully aware that there are a number of homosexual men who study chemistry as a legitimate discipline. I’m calling on the oglers who aren’t even pretending to take notes.”

Harry grins. “Well, what about the helium?”

“That was the previous day,” Severus states. “It was less effective.”

“Inhaling helium to change your voice is hardly a chemical experiment.”

“I didn’t present it as such. I simply used it as an introduction to the inert gases.”

“Inert gases my arse.” Harry nudges Severus with his shoulder.

Severus doesn’t need encouragement to think about Harry’s arse. The young man’s presence is becoming a bit more than distracting. 

“I checked my Facebook page today,” Severus says. “I don’t believe my actions have been enough to deter the most zealous of my admirers.”

“They’d die if they knew you’d found that Facebook group,” Harry responds. “You’re supposed to be the anti-technology, anti-social media professor.”

“I am,” replies Severus. “And since you’re here, you can give me the new password. Is there any reason you’re changing them every week?”

“On to me, are you?” asks Harry, nudging up against Severus again. He reaches for Severus’ glass and takes it from him, placing it on the table beside his own. “I suppose I enjoy our little visits. Changing the password means we get to see each other every week or so.”

“And you claim _I’m_ devious.”

“I had a Plan B,” Harry volunteers. His right hand is lying casually on Severus’ leg, just above his knee. “I was going to ask if I could sketch you – in return for the network access. I’ve done a few from memory, but it would be so much better to have you there in front of me. You could sit on my sofa reading the paper, or right over there, working on one of your books at the typewriter. You _do_ use that thing, don’t you? An actual typewriter? You don’t have a laptop?”

“You sound as if you’re trying to convince me, but one doesn’t usually implement Plan B when the original plan actually works.”

He’s dropped his left hand atop Harry’s right, which is still on his leg above his knee. He’s wearing the comfortable black jeans and soft black cashmere sweater, old and comfortable, that he always wears when he writes as Sebastian Tobias. He imagines himself with a well-trimmed goatee and longer hair, tied back in a tail, but he can’t – no, _won’t_ – affect that look while he’s also Professor Severus Snape.

Although – he’s not sure if such a look would attract more non-enrolled students or repel them.

“Who’s to say Plan A will keep working?” Harry says. “What if I change the password and you decide you’ve had enough of my games and decide to purchase your own service?”

He’s clearly flirting now. Even a man of Severus’ age, whose sexual experiences are infrequent and always discreet, can see that. 

“You still haven’t given me the new password, you know,” Severus states. Harry has turned his hand over and is holding Severus’. They’re still resting together on Severus’ leg, and Harry is leaning against him. He’s kicked off his shoes and drawn one foot up on the sofa cushion.

“Hmm. I haven’t, have I?” He reaches into his pocket with his left hand and extracts a Post-it note folded into quarters.

“I was planning on leaving this on your bathroom mirror or your refrigerator tonight,” he admits. He hasn’t handed it over to Severus yet. “I thought I’d leave the next step in your hands.”

Severus takes the square of yellow paper and unfolds it. He looks at it a moment, face carefully impassive, then chances a glance sideways. He doesn’t mean for his hand to tighten around Harry’s, but it does, and his heart skips a bit, just as those of his heroines do – far more often than is healthy. He presses the paper to his thigh and smooths it out.

K155Me

He glances at Harry again, then reaches for his tablet on the edge of the table, and inputs the new password. He smiles when it is accepted, and scoots the tablet back onto the table.

“That’s a yes, then?” Harry says. He leans in and breathes the words into Severus’ neck. His lips graze his skin as he speaks, and Severus turns his head, intending to answer, but Harry’s lips are already on his and his hand is cupping the back of his head, drawing him down closer. Harry kisses with a practiced ease, as if he’s kissed more than a few men in his life. But it’s not all art, not all technique. He’s already breathing heavily and maneuvering himself even closer to Severus. He’s eager for more, and he wants this – wants Severus. Severus knows the tells, feels them now, and something inside him settles a bit, accepts this strange but not unwelcome twist to the comfortable ordinary to which he’s long been accustomed.

When he starts to kiss back, moves his lips to Harry’s jawline, works his hands into the messy tangle of hair, Harry groans and, moments later, through more kisses, the heady feel of tongue and teeth, Harry is straddling him on the sofa, knees planted on either side of his thin frame. He has a height advantage from this position and he’s using it well, cupping Severus’ face, lips pressing against his own, a hint of tongue, a scrape of teeth as he sucks Severus’ lower lip, then bites it gently and moves on to kiss his ear, his jaw, his neck.

“Careful,” Severus manages to breathe as Harry’s lips linger on his neck.

“No marks – right,” Harry breathes. He kisses Severus’ mouth again, even as he slides to the floor between his knees, hugging Severus about the waist and resting his head on his lap where his cock is straining against the fabric of his worn denims. Severus can feel his breath, warm and moist, and cannot help but press up against him, carding his fingers through his hair.

“This alright?” Harry has deftly unbuttoned his trousers and is carefully pulling down the zip.

“In what world would this _not_ be alright?” Severus manages through a strangled moan as Harry’s lips brush against the fabric of his boxers. He lifts his hips obligingly as his jeans and pants are worked down and Harry captures the tip of his erection in his mouth and gives it a slow suck, then looks up at him with vibrant green eyes as he takes even more of it in. Severus cannot help but close his eyes and drop his head back as Harry works his cock deep into his throat, then cups his bollocks in one hand and rolls them gently between thumb and forefinger.

Severus thinks he must be living inside one of his ridiculous and contrived plots. Young men like Harry don’t woo him with constantly changing passwords or ask to sketch him or make him perfect tea or seduce him in his own sitting room. He might have given this more thought had his brain had sufficient blood flow, but as it is, every cubic centimeter of his blood that isn’t already in his cock is rushing there now where Harry’s head is bobbing, his tongue laving, his mouth applying the perfect pressure as his fingers gently roll his bollocks. The fingers of _one_ hand – the other has worked itself back, under his still-canted hips, where it grazes over his pucker as if it has every right in the world to be there and _fuck_! – the coil of pleasure is tightening and he lets himself thrust up into Harry’s mouth and Harry, beautiful, wonderful Harry – looks up at him again and smiles around his cock, then closes his eyes as Severus thrusts up again, and again, and again, until orgasm overtakes him and he chokes out a scream, pressing up into Harry’s mouth as Harry swallows around him until he is spent, then releases his cock and rests his head on Severus’ lap, panting softly. 

Severus rests his hand on the back of Harry’s neck, rubbing the muscles there, until Harry straightens and kisses Severus again.

“Your turn, then,” Severus says. “What would you like?”

“Hmmm.” Harry sighs and presses against Severus. “You can let me straddle you again and jerk off on your chest after I rip your shirt off.” He kisses him again, winding his tongue against Severus’. “Or you can let me fuck your face – I’d like that. Yeah.” 

Severus smiles lazily as Harry begins to unbutton his shirt.

“Or?”

Harry’s fingers still on the buttons and he blinks, studying Severus’ expression. He smiles and resumes his work.

“Or I could see how many of my fingers I can get in you before you ride me.” He presses his mouth to one bared nipple, sucking it sharply into his mouth as his fingers find the other and flick the nub. “Or take you over the arm of this sofa while you read me some of your best sex scenes – and I’ll picture you as the heroine, in a tightly laced corset and sheer black stockings.”

Severus moans – it’s raw and guttural and completely involuntary – and Harry grins and kisses his chin and sucks in his upper lip, then releases it and kisses the tip of Severus’ nose. “You look good in black,” he whispers.

“I look good on my back, too,” Severus returns, using one foot to push his trousers and pants off his leg onto the floor. He wraps his legs around Harry and they fall together onto the sofa.

It takes very little to bring Harry off – a few pulls, the mention of black stilettos, the picture of Severus’ chest bared before him. They clean themselves up, and there are a few awkward moments – it’s late, after all, and they’re both tired, and Severus would really like to finish his chapter and Harry needs a shower and something to eat.

“I’d best be getting home,” Harry says. He’s sitting on the floor in front of Severus, who is seated on the sofa. Severus’ knees are pressed against Harry’s shoulders. He turns and looks up at Severus. “I’ll need to change the password again tomorrow – not sure what it will be yet, so you’ll have to come down tomorrow and ask for it.”

“Ask for it?” Severus raises an eyebrow suggestively.

“Yeah – ask for it,” breathes Harry. He stands and leans down to kiss Severus. “See you tomorrow, then?”

And the goodbye is as easy as that, comfortable and promising. Severus looks around his sitting room, at the typewriter, the half-empty glasses of scotch, the stack of quizzes not yet marked. He eyes the clock – after midnight already – but there’s really nothing more he has to do tonight.

Except….

He stares at the typewriter for a long moment and two minutes later is sitting before it, fresh piece of paper rolled onto the carriage.

_Harry, tangled black fringe partially obscuring his emerald green eyes, calmly reached out and began unbuttoning Hermione’s mourning dress._

_“Black is a good colour on you,” he murmured, running a finger from the top of her neck down the cleavage of her firm, young breasts, outlined in conservative black lace. “And it’s a good colour off of you as well.” He pulled the lace down and she gasped as her bosoms bounced free._

_“Mr. Potter, how dare you!” she exclaimed, backing up against the wall behind her and glaring at him defiantly._

_He grinned his cocky smile and advanced toward her, then bent his head and engulfed a cherry-red nipple in his sinful mouth. She moaned as he released it, then reached up and unpinned her tangle of unruly hair, then twisted the long strands around her breasts, brushing the curly ends against her nipples. She shuddered and bit her bottom lip until it was plump and red._

_“You’ve been in mourning long enough, Hermione,” he whispered as he pressed this thigh between her legs. “K155 me….K155 me now.”_

Severus sighed and dropped his head onto the typewriter keys.

“Some muse,” he muttered.

He pulled the paper out of the typewriter and, almost as an afterthought, folded it in half and wrote Harry’s name across the front.

_Fin_


End file.
